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1911 


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Marjorie Benfcm CooKe 



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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/tomotherOOcook 




By the same author 




THE TWELFTH CHKISTMAS 
The Christ Child's Eevelation 

Fifty Cents 








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OH, lend me, Ariel, thy filmy wing, 
That I may tread the pathways 
of the sky, 
Peep through the fingers of the dawn, 
and try 
To teach my Muse new vistas, ere I 

sing. 
I'd chant no marching song for war- 
rior's feet, 
No "Laus Deo" shall my voice in- 
tone, — 
I would not, with its murmurs and 
its moan, 
Transcribe the motley music of the 
street — 



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These mighty themes I leave to mighty 

art; 
Some stronger voice than mine must 

sing their praise — 
But I would music in some simple 

lays 
The gentlest passion of the human 

heart. 
I, gaining strength from one note to 

another, 
Would bare my soul in love songs to a 

mother ! 






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II 

OFT like a dusky veil night settles 

down. 
O ye dead souls of poets up in 

Heav'n, 

Lend me the art that unto you was 
given, 
To polish gems more fitting for her 

crown. 
Alas, my little verses weakly try 

To soar above, but flutt'ring vainly, 

beat 
And drop, like homing love-birds at 
her feet, 
'Neath the divine compassion of her 
eye. 




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Enough for rne that she hath said, "I 

take 
These pretty cripples and the orphan 

Muse, 
Which the cold world may scoff at 

and abuse, 
Safe in my heart I'll keep them for 

love's sake." 
And so, all fearful in her pity lest 
They die, she warms them in her 

mother breast. 




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Ill 

F on this path which leads from dark 

to light, 
You meet one soul who knows and 

understands, 
Who sees the work you mean to do, 

demands 
That you live up to what in love's clear 

sight 
You're meant to be — what matters else 

beside? 
Others may chance along your road, 

and praise, 
Or scoff and scorn, then go their 

various ways — 
Your one soul stays, content but to 

abide 



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Not critic, but appreciating friend, 
Whose loyal faith is like a lambent 

fire 
To touch with flame the slumbering 

desire 
In each of us to shape life to some end. 
This much I know, whatever else may 

be, 
Mother, thou hast been that one soul 

to me. 





LOOK into the quaintly pictured 

face, 
My mother's face when she was but 

a child — 
So pale, so sad, so delicately styled, 
The smitten poet of a stricken race. 
Her eyes, like two deep pools of sap- 
phire light, 
Reflecting naught of sunshine or of 

day — 
No childish joyousness, but all the 
gray 
Mysterious shadows of the dusk or 
night. 

eyes of tear-dimmed 



9 




X/2 





THE day is drear and misery is keen, 
I live beneath the shadow of your 
frown — 
Harsh words were spoken no regrets 
can drown, 
And we are silent, with our pride be- 
tween. 
'Twas such a little word that made the 
sting, 
Yet with the stillness how it grows 

apace, 
Until it fills the room and all of 
space, 
Leering at us, like some misshapen 
thing. 



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Ah, Sweet, I want your kisses on my 

cheek 
And brow. I come to ask you to 

forgive — 
Let's promise now that never while 

we live 
Shall we misunderstand again, nor 

speak 
Words that are better left unvoiced and 

mute — 
Ah, mother mine, no rift must mar our 

lute. 



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AND locked in hand, we came 
upon a place 
Where two roads branched from off 

the one we walked ; 
And Disappointment on the new 
path stalked 
Toward one of us, as we stood face to 

face, 
Each knowing well the way the heart 
desired, 
Each seeing what the choice must 

needs demand, 
Both vowing that we'd still go hand 
in hand, 
No matter how the heartless fates 
conspired. 



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We closed our eyes and struggled not 

to see 
The parting of the ways that lay 

ahead — 
Then your love rose unto the test, 

and said, 
Choosing at once for both yourself 

and me — 
"O child of mine, in spite of gods or 

creeds, 
My way lies only where your dear 

heart leads!" 







F some old friend, to reminiscence 

stirred, 
Fingering the treasures of my mem'ry 

room, 
Should come upon a bier, all hung 
with gloom, 
And whisper softty, "Who lies here 

interred?" 
I'd lift that dead day from its resting 
place — 
It marked the hour I stepped from 

Childhood's land, 
And with the wet clay of my life in 
hand 
I gazed into the Future's veiled face, — 




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VIII 

IF then my friend should chance to 
ask of me 
What day was filled the fullest to 

the brim 
With joy, I should not need to 
answer him 
After long searching in my memory. 
I'd cry it out so that your heart might 
hear, 
'Twas when you made me feel first, 

one white morn, 
I was not just your child, whom you 
had borne, 
Reared unto womanhood, and so held 
dear, — 



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But quite apart from this, your mother- 
hood, 
You hailed me more than child, a 

kindred soul, 
Striving to march abreast toward 
your high goal, 

Twin to your spirit, one who under- 
stood — 

That day alone, which proved my right 
to be, 

I'd not exchange for immortality! 




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IX 




ISERY to-day unveiled her face 
to me, 
And in her arms she held a dream of 

mine, 
Long cherished at my inmost secret 
shrine ; 
And now, still-born, she held it me to 

see. 
I cried aloud in agonized surprise, 
That I, exempt till now, must be 

bereft, 
And all despoiled and stripped should 
thus be left 
To read the mockery in Misery's eyes. 
The world lies all in shadow, and it 
seems 



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No effort 's worth the making — 

no design 
Worth striving to complete, if I 
resign 
This, the best loved of all my youthful 

dreams. 
Ah, mother, let me lie upon your breast 
And weep the bitterness away, and rest. 





X 

ERHAPS there may be in the 
Afterwhile 
Some spirit-elf wrought all of joy 

and light, 
To touch eyes, dimmed with weep- 
ing, to new sight — 
To teach lips set in sadness how to 

smile. 
For some there be, ill-destined from 
their birth 
To march lock - step in Sorrow's 

motley train, 
While past them wind, a-singing 
through the rain, 
Those wassailers, the chosen few of 
Mirth. 






And did a son of Joy, with rapid 

strides, 
O'ertake thee, little nun, in somber 

gray, 
And lead thee captive down the 

primrose way 
Where buxom Laughter holds her 

shaking sides? 
Yes, Love and Laughter locked hands 

to beguile — 
That's how my mother won her misty 

smile ! 







XI 
HE robin trills again his care-free 



The sun shines, and the sky is 

radiant blue; 
The universe doth feel no loss of 
you, 
Nor mark my sighing that the day is 

long! 
I'd have the rain veil morn in scarfs of 

gray, 
I'd have her mute the robin's ecstasy, 
I'd bid the wind sigh in a minor 

key — 
Does Earth not know that you have 

gone away? 





Grim Nature, heedless, in her wonted 

hue, 
Marches unmoved by the spawn she 

breeds, 
Nor gives ear to our petty human 

needs — 
She little cares that home 's bereft of 

you! 
The silence speaks of you, and all the 

place 
Awaits the morning smile of your dear 

face. 



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XII 

SUMMER — blue skies — and sunshine 
everywhere, 
The blessing of the mid-year's joyous 

days, 
And then the benediction Autumn 
lays 
On field and forest and on meadows 

fair. 
Thus have we watched the pageant 
and the show— 
With thirsty lips at Mother Nature's 

cup 
We've quaffed renewal, and with 
ev'ry sup 
Reluctance that these sweet calm days 
must go. 



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How ev'ry morn has dawned, bowed 

with its load 
Of love grown stronger, and new 

love revealed, 
As if some shy heart buds till now 

concealed 
Had come to blossom on this summer's 

road. 
With pomp, upon hill altars, and with 

state, 
A summer unto love we consecrate. 



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XIII 




THIS would I, Muezzin-like, cry 
from my tow'r — 
Calling the world to hearken and to 

pray 
That men might learn this credo 
day by day, — 
The dignity of work, love, and its 

pow'r. 
If some Redeemer might cast out again 
The money - changers, make the 

temple clean, 
Teach us that work well done is 
never mean, 
Make clear to us that hate brings only 
pain, 



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XIV 

THING apart life seems among 
the pines — 
Our cares, like last year's thoughts, 

are laid away; 
Unto its peaceful end rounds out 
each day, 
And fades, like to a shadow that 

declines. 
Or is this life, in all its plenitude, 
Within this temple which the pines 

do shape, 
Where trivial things dare not gri- 
mace nor gape 
Full in the face of Nature's magnitude? 
Would we might cast out for all time 
the wild 






Fierce sense of battle, chant a peace- 
ful psalm, 
Learn the first steps in Nature's 
mighty calm, 
And kneel within the forest's shrine — 

a child. 
What peace, refreshment, and what 

clean ideals, 
The forest to the seeing eye reveals ! 









ID ever travellers in the golden 



Seeking the shrines where some long- 
dead saints rest, 
Know half the ardor or the joy of 
quest 
With which we fared on our first 

pilgrimage? 
What ecstasies of planning, and what 
days 
Of dreaming of the pleasures held in 

store, 
And how like children we peeped 
through the door 
Which leads into Adventure's gay 
highways! 



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My Muse would shake with mirth did 

I but sing 
How merrily we set forth, how we 

laughed, — 
No Canterbury pilgrims ever chaffed 
As we did on that famous journeying. 
Your Chaucer-songs may even yet be 

sung 
Of those shrines which we sought, 

where you were young! 




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I WONDER if, in some dim world 
beyond, 
Whither our steps may lead us some 

glad day, 
There will be heart-speech, or some 
simple way 
That soul may call, companion soul 

respond? 
When all the silent heralds of the 
dawn 
Tiptoe across the hushed world's 

eastern rim, 
Or when upon the moor, windswept 
and grim 
Some revelation flashes, and is gone; 






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XVII 

SEE them sometimes upraised, as in 

prayer, 
Or loosely clasped, a-weary with 

much toil; 
I watch them as they deftly twist 

and coil 
The smooth bands of her silken soft 

gray hair; 
I mark them as they fold and stitch 

and sew 
What days and weeks, aye, years, 

those hands have seamed, 
Since first above her baby's clothes 

she leaned, 
And wove her mother-dreams so long 






I feel them smooth my childish woes 

to rest; 
They bind a laurel wreath to guerdon 

youth ; 
But always "bearing gifts" they 

come, in truth, 
Nor will they tire till crossed upon 

her breast. 
When I shall come where gentle Jesus 

stands, 
He'll welcome me with mother's giving 

hands ! 





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XVIII 

HESE later years have bound upon 
thy back 
Fardels of suff 'ring which have bent 

thee low, 
Halted thy steps, and made thy 
progress slow, 
Though staff and helping hand thou 

didst not lack. 
The days, like hills, stretched off to 
Heaven's gate, 
Each peak a pinnacle of poignant 

pain, 
And at the base, run riot with night- 
bane, 
Lo, Death, grim Watcher, lurked and 
lay in wait. 



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XIX 




ACK from the very brink of the 
Black Stream, 
Turning from Charon's friendly out- 
stretched hand, 
You came back from the edge of No- 
Man's Land, 
As one who groped her way from out a 

dream. 
Up the steep side each traveller 
descends, 
Who seeks the river Lethe at the 

base, 
You resolutely turned your dear 
white face, 
And struggled back to life, to make 
amends 



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To us deserted when your strength 
had flown. 
And when I kissed your hands and 

touched your hair, 
Asking why you had come, since 
peace lay there, 

You spoke thus softly in your mother- 
tone: 

"Because, until I've held upon my 
breast 

Your little child, I would not go to 
rest!" 



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XX 

WHEN the gray Summoner halts 
somewhere near, 
Next door, perchance, and raps with 

fingers light, 
And beckons, how we close our 
casement tight, 
To cower each within our House of 

Fear! 
We try to think of him in gentle guise, 
As Christ returned again, God's only 

Son, 
Or Mary, beggared of her little one, 
Seeking new babes to fondle, mother- 
wise. 
O Death, thou desecrator of each 
shrine, 



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XXI 

THE red-tongued flame leaps round 
our hearth-log fast, 
The bark splits, and the tree's white 

heart lies bare; 
A stalwart Caesar of the peaks 
sprawls there, 
While all the legions of his years 

march past. 
The lawless wind that sweeps across 
the world, 
Hath scourged his branches with its 

mighty flail — 
Decades of storm assaulted with their 
gale— 
The taloned eagle round his crest hath 
whirled. 



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XXII 
WOULD not have my life blaze 

like the sun, 
To light the world and dazzle with 

its glare; 
I'd rather be the flow'r in Night's 
dark hair — 
The twilight star, that shines when 

day is done. 
I would not have my life a river, mired 
With ships of many cargoes, and 

much gold ; 
I'd rather be the mountain brook— 
the cold, 
Clear waters of refreshment for the 
tired. 





I would not have my life a hot high- 
way, 
Resounding with the tramp of human 

feet, 
The market-place where all the 
passions meet, 

And even children have no time to 
play.— 

Nay, I would be a path up to the crest, 

A ribbon stretched across the Hills of 
Rest. 





XXIII 

IF you would seek the trail to that 
domain 
Where Joy and Laughter reign in 

joint estate, 
Where Care slips from your shoul- 
ders as the late 
Drought flees the tapping fingers of 

the Rain — 
Just strap your knapsack to your back, 
and fare 
Across the yellow desert sands that 

lie 
Beyond those temple-pillars of the 
sky, 
The Rockies — tow'ring through the 
ages there — 





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Until at last you come thus, gypsy- 
wise, 
Into a garden which the Lord hath 

sown, 
And smiled upon, and cherished for 
His own,— 

Lo, here that realm of Joy and Laugh- 
ter lies ! 

O Mirth, are you forever beck'ning 
there, 

Where Youth sits smiling 'neath her 
tangled hair? 





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XXIV 

HEARKEN, O Keeper of the Keys 
of Heav'n, 
To me, a beggar at the outer gate. 
I crave not wealth, success, nor high 
estate — 
Grant me the patience of the Virgins 

Seven ! 

For life's great crises strength springs 

up full-armed, — 

Undaunted I can grapple the unseen ; 

But, oh, the nagging army of routine 

Which marches past my bulwarks, all 

unharmed. 
Oh, teach me how to fly the flag of 
truce 





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From my high tow'r, and not to 

break my sword 
In anger on that Briareus' horde ; 
But let me make mine enemy of use ! 
Mine be the strength to sing upon my 

way, 
And trim the little lamp of everyday! 





XXV 




EAR HEART, whose love I have 
been blessed with so, 
Whose ev'ry dream has been for my 

poor sake, — 
If, in the end, each one of us might 
take 
His choicest treasure into Heav'n, I 

know 
How rich I'd be accounted, who could 
bear 
The white wand of your love to show 

to God, 
High o'er my head, like to the 
bloss'ming rod 
Of Aaron, lifted on the summer air. 




■13 !8 1311 



One copy del. to Cat. Div, 



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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

■MR 

018 604 907 R 




